


Punch/Drunk

by spectrifical



Series: Coller Point [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Injury, M/M, Pre-Slash, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:07:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectrifical/pseuds/spectrifical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not that Jim spends a lot of time in the back offices of bars, but the kind of person who keeps a room this neat probably wouldn’t want a trouble-making patron bleeding all over it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punch/Drunk

“And where do you think you’re going?” the bartender asks, hands on hips, both motherly and superheroic at the same time. Which is not, perhaps, the figure he means to cut: it's more ridiculous than authoritative. In a charming sort of way. Not charming enough to keep Jim Kirk from splitting though.

“Um… home?” Jim answers. The blood oozing down his forehead tickles and pools above his eyebrow, making it difficult to keep from twitching and blinking and otherwise expressing his discomfort physically. He doesn’t want to give this guy any more reason to keep him. It wasn’t even his fault, the fight. Not this time anyway.

“Wrong answer,” Bartender answers, unimpressed, moments from tapping his foot from the looks of it. “Try again.”

“Urgent care?” Jim says—asks—less certain of himself than usual, but surer by the second that this guy is gonna call an ambulance on him. Or worse.

Bartender scoffs and shakes his head, dubious. His disbelief sneaks through in the dimpling of his cheeks, the prelude to an unintended smile. Jim has caused many unintended smiles in his time. He knows the signs. That’s part of _his_ charm. Maybe he’s not in as much trouble as he’d thought.

“Come with me,” Bartender says, grabbing Jim and dragging him past the bathrooms before he can complain or stage an escape. He takes Jim further down the dim, wood-paneled hallways and throws open a door with his free hand. He nods Jim in when Jim doesn’t move quickly enough for his tastes. “Siddown.”

“What are you going to do?” Jim asks, obeying, though reluctantly and with hesitant steps. He eyes the office with suspicion. Scrupulously kept desk, clean walls, bright overhead lights. Not that Jim spends a lot of time in the back offices of bars, but the kind of person who keeps a room this neat probably wouldn’t want a trouble-making patron bleeding all over it.

“I’ve seen you here a couple a times. You keep quiet and my bartenders like you. And I saw what just went down and it’s on the other guy. I figure the least anyone can do for you is make sure you’re okay.” Bartender—and Jim really needs to get a name out of this guy if they’re going to keep talking, which looks increasingly likely as the minutes pass—crouches behind the desk and roots around in a drawer. The thud of wood against plastic awakens a dull throb in Jim’s temple. When Bartender stands, he’s dragging along a first aid kit that could have been a tackle box in a previous life. He flicks open the white plastic and pulls out a few things—adhesive tape, sterile cloths, scissors, saline solution, Neosporin—with such ease that practice must have been involved at some point. No one knows their way around a first aid kit like that without a little devotion to the subject. And no one keeps those things as meticulous and well-stocked as this one is unless they’re serious.

Then he pulls a small flashlight from the box and Jim knows he means business.

“I don’t have a concussion,” he says, amused and not a little touched. Most people don’t give a good goddamn about strangers. And an even greater proportion doesn’t give a good goddamn about Jim in particular.

“I’m sure you’d know,” Bartender answers dryly. “Let me check anyway. Since you’re here an’ all.”

Jim raises his arms and drops them with a sigh. Sometimes conceding is the better part of valor. It’ll be quicker to give in than argue. The guy had been willing to manhandle him for the right to tend his wound after all. “Be my guest.”

“So obliging,” he says, deadpan. He wipes his hands down with an alcohol wipe before pulling on a pair of gloves. The rubber snaps unpleasantly to Jim’s ear. “I’m grateful.”

“You check a lot of people for head injuries?” Jim asks, pointing at the kit and Bartender’s hands.

“Not really the kind of establishment we run here.” Bartender rounds the desk and slides all of his supplies to the edge closest to Jim with a controlled sweep of his forearm. He bites his lip as he leans in to get a closer look and amends his statement with a rueful smile. “Usually.”

“Sorry,” Jim says, feeling a pang of guilt. He happens to like this bar—hasn’t had cause to like much lately—and hadn’t meant to cause trouble. This guy has better things to do than push and press his fingers along Jim’s hairline. But shit like this follows him wherever he goes. It's something like bad luck. If bad luck had a focused, intense desire to see one person suffer often and forever.

“’s okay. I’m sure the regulars appreciated the excitement. They’ll be talking about that punch to the head you took for a month. He catch you with a ring or something? Jesus.”

“Is that what it was?”

“Dunno. Looks like. Hendorff’ll know. You’ll probably want to talk to him before you go if you wanna press charges.”

Jim chooses to ignore the implied question. The thought of involving the police makes his stomach turn even though the jackass with the ring deserves a night or two in jail. It’s the latent delinquent in him. He doesn’t trust cops. And he doesn’t need them either. Not like he’s planning on running into the guy again. Though if he does, he'll know to be ready for him.

Bartender takes his silence in stride. “Any nausea?” he asks.

“Nope.”

“Who’s the president?” he asks. Jim gets the distinct impression the guy’s mocking him now from the tiny, self-indulgent smile tilting the left side of his mouth upward. Nobody’s teased Jim in a long time. An embarrassingly large knot of gratitude lodges itself under Jim’s ribcage.

“Don’t be a dick,” Jim says anemically. He doesn’t mean it—of course he doesn’t—Bartender’s probably the least dickish pushy person he’s ever met. That doesn’t explain why he feels comfortable insulting the guy, though. But Jim knows it’s the right decision when he just laughs and picks up the flashlight.

“You mind?” he asks, waving the thing between his thumb and forefinger.

“Nah. Do your worst.”

Bartender bends down to eye level, intent, eyes tracking left and right, up and down, all but scanning and memorizing his every feature; Jim wonders what he sees. He doesn’t touch although Jim can tell he wants to from the slight jerk of his hand toward Jim’s face. Then he twists the head of the flashlight and flicks it back and forth in front of Jim’s eyes. The disruptive light, brighter than he’d expected, flashes in energetic pulses through his skull. He fights the urge to flinch away and just hopes his pupils cooperate to Bartender’s satisfaction. Once Bartender stops, though, the pain recedes to a dull, manageable ache.

“Congratulations,” Bartender says. “I think you’re gonna make it.”

“Glad to hear it,” Jim says, shifting in the leather chair. A muffled groan accompanies the movement and Bartender’s eyes hone in on him until he realizes that Jim hadn’t made the sound.

Bartender grabs a cloth and the saline. “Shut your eyes.” He holds the cloth over Jim’s eye, just under the eyebrow, and secures it by molding his pinkie over the ridge of bone there. The saline trickles down his forehead in a thin stream. “You really should see a doctor. You could use a stitch or two,” Bartender says.

“Something tells me you’re all the doctor I need,” Jim says, rapid fire, before his brain can catch up to his mouth. It’s a little forward, he’ll admit that much, but he doesn’t expect the sudden splash of saline against his cheek and the stunned—and not in a good way—look that disappears from Bartender’s face only a moment after Jim opens his eyes to see what had happened.

“Shit, sorry—” Bartender says.

Jim covers the unsteady hand still holding the cloth to his forehead and frees the cotton. He swipes at his cheek with the half not covered in reddish blood.

“It’s okay,” Jim says, his own foolishness foremost in his mind. He used to be smoother, more subtle, less invested in the outcomes of his passes. He’s lucky the guy didn’t throw a whole glass of water’s worth of saline in his face. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

Bartender takes a step back and draws a deep breath. “It’s not that. I just—well, it’s a long story.”

“Oh?” Jim says, showing interest without prying. He hopes. Bad enough he’s screwed up once already.

“Yeah.” Bartender looks away, finding his center, and snatches up the pack of cloths. He rips out a fresh one and hands it to Jim. “Hold that to your forehead for a sec.”

“Sure,” Jim says, exuding complacency and innocence in the hopes that Bartender will forget his faux-pas.

While Jim holds the cloth against his skin, Bartender cuts a piece of tape from the roll and notches it in the center on both sides. After folding and pinching the notches together, he examines what looks to be a perfectly serviceable butterfly bandage. Satisfied, he picks up the tube of Neosporin and returns to Jim’s side.

“Why don’t we take a look?” he says as Jim removes the cloth. “Open,” he demands, handing the Neosporin to Jim. He holds out his index finger so that Jim can squeeze a bit of the cream onto his gloved finger. Bartender applies it in small, careful circles, the action more soothing than it has any right being.

Bartender finishes his ministrations with the deliberate placement of the bandage, pushing Jim’s hair back with the flat of his free hand to ensure the adhesive tugs as little as possible at his hairline.

“Thanks,” Jim says, more than a little humbled by the attention this man has paid him. It’s more than he’s got from anyone in a good, long time that hasn’t come with meaningless sex strung along with it.

“I used to be a doctor,” Bartender says, an explanation and, Jim hopes, an acceptance of Jim’s apology. “I wasn’t incompetent or anything—”

“Wouldn’t have thought you were,” Jim says, gesturing at his own forehead.

Bartender rolls his eyes. “Knowing some first aid doesn’t prove anything. But anyway. I was a doctor. And I wasn’t cut out for it. That’s why I… before,” he says. He rubs at the back of his head, grimacing when he remembers he’s still wearing the gloves. “Still gets to me, I guess.”

He turns his head and Jim can see the longing even if only one half of that distant look is visible to him. His first instinct is to tell the guy he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Jim knows people. And Jim knows that Bartender doesn’t belong here with that kind of desire inside of him. But his second instinct stays his tongue. Because he also knows better than anyone that sometimes the things people want most are the things that aren’t meant for them and there’s nothing for it but to find something else to fill the void. And anyway, Bartender knows his own life and Jim, though he’d like to know something of it, too, doesn’t feel comfortable offering platitudes when he has no idea of Bartender's circumstances. Now that he’s looking, though, he can see the doctor in his bartender. And it’s a shame he thinks he can’t get what he had back. Jim knows something about that, too. He wouldn't wish it on another person.

“Are you… does this make you happy?” Jim asks, waving at the room, the bar, everything the movement can possibly engender. He needs the assurance that Bartender isn’t miserable; he’s not sure why it’s so important.

“It’s not so bad,” Bartender says, peering at Jim. His eyes have cleared, now a comfortable green-brown. Settled. It puts Jim at ease, gives him hope. Bartender shrugs and smiles. “Sometimes I get hit on by good-looking guys with rotten luck. That’s a perk you don’t pick up in the trauma ward.”

Trauma ward. So not just a doctor. Jim’s not surprised. Bartender hasn’t been _just_ anything all since he bullied Jim into treatment. “I didn't realize there was so many of us around.”

“Well, maybe not many. A few,” he admits, pulling of the gloves to scratch at the corner of his eye. He leans back against the desk, tosses the offending rubber at a nearby garbage can, and gives Jim a thorough once-over that echoes in a flutter through Jim’s limbs and torso.

“That’s better,” Jim says.

“Yeah, well. Despite the good odds I’ll inflate your ego here, I’m gonna let you in on a secret.”

Jim leans forward, eyes turned up at Bartender. From this angle, Bartender looks really tall. And broad. “And what secret would that be?”

“You’re the only one a pick-up line that bad was gonna work for,” he says, light and matter-of-fact, as though reciting the evening’s cocktail menu. He glances at the calendar tacked to the wall. Undecipherable squiggles, color-coded according to some rationale, cover each day’s box. “You free Thursday after 8?”

Jim ransacks his brain, mentally rearranging his schedule as he goes, and ignores the slight to his pick-up line. It worked after all. “Yup.”

“Good,” Bartender says, twisting around and scrounging for a piece of paper and a pen. He gives Jim an exquisite view of his back as he scribbles something down. When he turns around again, he thrusts the paper at Jim. It’s Bartender’s phone number. And his name. Leonard. “Give me a call on Wednesday whenever. We can figure out the details then.”

_Leonard._

Bartender does not look like a Leonard.

“You oughta head home. Get some rest,” Leonard says.

“Whatever you say, Leo,” Jim answers, most of his attention on memorizing the phone number. Just in case. Not that he won’t be putting it into his phone as soon as humanly possible, but things happen. Technology fails. Bits of paper get lost. Chances go untaken. And Leo's a horrible nickname.

“Don’t call me Leo.”

“Len?” Jim tries and wrinkles his nose. Ugh, no.

“Folks back home called me Lee, but I suggest you get used to calling me by my full given name if you want me to answer you.”

Jim waves him off. “I’ll think of something.”

Leonard crosses his arms. “You’ll think Leonard is a perfectly suitable name for a person.”

“Sure.”

Leonard huffs, but wages no further battle over Jim’s right to call him something cooler. “You drive here?”

“No, I walked,” Jim says, standing. He smoothes out the wrinkles in his shirt. “I don’t live far.”

“You’re gonna walk?” Leonard asks, making the whole thing sound like a menacingly bad idea.

“I’ll call a cab,” Jim says, sure that Leonard’s not going to let him have his way.

Leonard nods, appeased. “Come sit at the bar when you’re done. I’d like to keep an eye on you. Make you drink some water. You’re gonna want a painkiller, too, I suspect. You allergic to acetaminophen?”

“No.”

Leonard rummages around in the first aid kit. “I’ll get you some Tylenol. You go on ahead.”

Jim stops in the doorway and leans against the jamb. “Never would’ve guessed getting punched would be worth it,” he says, knocking at the frame. “But I’m glad it happened.”

Leonard stares up from the desk. “You’re a piece of work…”

“This piece of work’s name is Jim,” Jim says brightly.

“You’re a piece of work, _Jim_. Now go call yourself that cab. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“I certainly hope you will.”

Leonard ducks his head as he closes the kit. “Unbelievable.”

Jim strolls down the hallway, feeling lighter than a man who’d got into a one-sided fight ought to. As he dials the cab company number, he decides that’s a good sign. Only Jim Kirk’s luck would change on the wings of a weak punch from a drunk. That’s something he can believe in. And anyway, it’ll make a great story if he can keep Leonard’s interest past Thursday at 8. Even if the good luck only holds in that respect it'll be worth it. He’s always been a sucker for a good story.


End file.
